Chapter CXIII: The Magnanimous Missionary
In the quiet hum of the early morning, 1999 Studio Café glows with a warm golden hue. Light jazz drifts from overhead speakers, and the café's specialty green tea steams gently in a mug held by a man with wavy, shoulder-length curls and thoughtful eyes.
Akito Nashi sighs contentedly, lifting the mug to his lips. Scroll. Sip. Scroll. Sip.
That is his rhythm as he absently thumbs through YourBook, the social media platform of choice for professors who like literature, cats, and tagging their plants with oddly poetic names.
"'Morning dew rests upon the rosemary's hair like an unresolved memory'... What does that even mean?" he mutters, squinting at someone's poetic caption. "It's a potted plant, Clarisse."
Suddenly, his phone rings. An unknown number. He eyes it warily.
Then answers.
"Hello?"
A robotic but oddly smooth voice replies:
"Is this Akito Nashi?"
He raises a brow. "Yes?"
"Your parcel will be delivered soon at your dorm."
Akito nods slowly, taking it as one of those online orders he made late at night while in a mid-life academic spiral. "Thank you, mysterious disembodied voice," he says sincerely, then hangs up.
He leans back in his seat, still cradling the mug.
Outside the window, a Filipino tourist laughs and takes selfies with the studio café's anime-themed statue—a massive, oddly off-brand knockoff of Agent x Family wearing a fedora.
The sight triggers a memory.
Akito's eyes soften. The tea cools.
And his mind drifts back in time...to 2012.
At the Heritage Province in the Philippines, it's scorching, the kind of heat that makes you question the wisdom of school uniforms. Teenage Akito walks the hallways of a private institution nestled in the heart of the capital of the province that is owned by the SVD (Societas Verbi Divini) Missionaries.
His curly hair and porcelain skin draw attention—unwanted attention.
"Hoy, puti-puti mo Tisoy!"
"Puti-puti mo parang ikaw yung kape na may dalawang cream."
"May nose bridge siya, ang taas ng pride!"
"Konnichiwa-yawa"
Akito ignores them, and whispers, "Baka (Idiot)"
"Baka? Is he talking about a cow? Or baka...baka naman, bigay mo lunch money mo Hapon!"
He doesn't even fully understand tagalog, but mostly he is very fond of English.
The taunts are followed by obnoxious laughter, and Akito, carrying three textbooks and an already crumpled test paper, keeps walking without a word.
But it stings.
At lunch, he accidentally drops his bento box and the kids howl like hyenas. Even the cafeteria lady hides a smirk.
He escapes to the shaded canopy near the school gate, shoulders heavy with humiliation and math homework.
"Life sucks," he mutters, plopping down on the waiting shed's cement bench.
Then he turns his head...
...And freezes.
There, carved into the old concrete wall behind the bench, is a fading mosaic of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The smile is faint, the paint chipping, but the image remains.
Akito stares at it for a long time.
Something flickers inside him.
He doesn't cry. He doesn't say anything poetic.
He just exhales, sets down his bag, and pulls out his notes.
"Okay," he whispers, opening the pages. "Then I'll be the one to change."
Three months later, his name is announced at the recognition ceremony:
Top 1 Student – Akito Nashi.
Even the bullies clap.
In 2014, still at the capital of the heritage province, just 1.6km away from the private institution, is a seminary with a large cross mounted on its 3-storey façade, with a fence in front made of WWII metal runways. Now in senior high school, Akito enters the gates of the seminary, a tranquil place filled with ancient trees, singing birds, and the constant sound of sandals slapping against tiles.
He believes he's finally found peace. He takes solace in the silent prayers, the Latin hymns, and the scent of old books.
But one day, during silent adoration, he hears something in his heart—not a voice, but a feeling:
"Go home. Not yet here."
He prays more. He fasts.
The answer remains the same.
And so, with a heavy but clear heart, he writes a letter to the seminary director and books a flight back to Japan.
He gets back to Japan, and finishes senior high in 2016.
Then completes a double major in Philosophy and Literature at a university in Kyoto.
His dorm is a tiny, rice-cooker-filled capsule, but his bookshelf is massive.
He publishes a few philosophical essays. Teaches literature in tutoring schools.
But every year, he stares at the map pinned to his corkboard—highlighted in red ink: The Philippines.
"I'll go back," he whispers every New Year's Eve. "There's more work there."
He eventually gets a job first as an intern at Shinomiya Highschool, then becomes fully the teacher for Philosophy and Ethics. .
He also revives the Literature Club—a dusty room filled with empty teacups, leftover anthologies, and a beanbag chair that may or may not be alive.
At first, no one comes.
Day one: zero members.
Day two: one girl who thought it was a tea appreciation club.
Day three: BOOM. Twelve students.
On day four, disaster strikes.
Enter: Isoto Ivanovich.
Isoto is like if chaos and charisma had a child.
A third-year student with bleached hair, an unbuttoned uniform, and a laugh that sounds like he swallowed a cartoon chicken.
He enters the Literature Club uninvited and declares:
"I came to read poetry, fight God, and steal coffee. And I'm out of coffee."
Akito gets irritated by his word and thinks, "What the fudge did this punk said?!"
"эта планировка офиса отстой. (This office layout sucks)." Isoto says in Russian.
Then Akito smiles, "There's nothing wrong with this office for this is just the simple things in mind."
Isoto's jaw dropped.
"What? Ты думаешь, я не понимаю твой язык? (You think I don't understand your language?) Think again because I learned 10 languages, especially Tagalog, Ilocano, English, French, Spanish, and more."
Isoto smirks.
Akito stares at him for three seconds.
Then calmly stands, pulls out a chair, and gestures for him to sit.
Isoto blinks. "You're not gonna yell at me?"
"No. But I will force you to read Nietzsche until your brain melts."
"Challenge accepted," Isoto smirks.
Three weeks later, Isoto is officially the club president.
Mostly because no one else can handle organizing events without turning them into spontaneous debate battles about whether Plato would survive in modern Japan.
Then the flashback ends and back to the present at the café.
Akito blinks out of his memories as the Filipino tourist waves at him, apparently mistaking him for a K-drama actor.
He scrolls through YourBook on his phone, half-distracted, thumb gliding lazily. Between posts of someone's cat wearing glasses and another student ranting about test week being "the real hell," a particular post stops him cold.
Missing: Akiko Chisai and Kota Mizushiro
Posted by Asahi, 3 hours ago.
Akito sits upright. His matcha almost spills. A waiter walking by gives him a judgmental side-eye. Akito ignores it.
"Eh?" he mutters, squinting. "What's this?"
He quickly taps on the message, then opens his inbox. He types:
Akito: > Asahi. Just saw your post. Is that real?
A moment later, a reply.
Asahi: > Yeah, Sensei. They've been missing since the weekend. We filed a report. Some of us think it's more than just them skipping school. Something's wrong. It's been 6 days.
Akito frowns. He grips his phone tighter and sighs. "Kota..."
And just like that, the window of memory slides open.
Flashback: 2022 — New Blood in the Club
The cherry blossoms are still clinging to life outside the window of Room 2-5 when Kota, a quiet, bright-eyed student from Class 1-A, shyly walks into the literature club room.
He bows awkwardly. "Uh... is this the right club?"
Akito, mid-sip of cold coffee, nods. "If you're here to express existential dread via poetry or explore the futility of life through prose, you're in the right place."
Kota blinks.
"...Yes, sir?"
A week in, Kota is already showing promise. His essays are sharp. His short stories lean toward abstract metaphysical tales — timelines splitting, identities merging. It's raw but alive. Isoto Ivanovich, the chaotic Russian-Japanese sophomore who considers himself the club's "literary god," watches with thinly veiled jealousy.
"He writes like Kafka with an anime filter," Isoto mutters under his breath one meeting. "And that's my thing."
One day, as the clubroom empties, Akito finds Kota alone in the hallway, leaning against the lockers like some protagonist from a slice-of-life drama.
Akito approaches. "Hey. You okay?"
Kota tries to brush it off. "Just tired, Sensei. It's... been a weird week."
He slides down, sitting cross-legged, his bag beside him like a loyal pet. "You ever wonder, like... what if everything — every decision — splits the world into branches?"
Akito raises a brow. "Like a multiverse?"
Kota nods slowly. "Yeah. Like... Schrodinger's cat. Maybe somewhere, I didn't join this club. Maybe somewhere, Isoto is nice. Maybe somewhere... I'm not me."
Akito sits beside him, unbothered by the polished floor. "Reality as branching timelines... classic metaphysics."
He folds his arms. "I once thought that, too. But then I realized — every 'branch' still needs roots. And roots? Those are choices. Conscious ones. You may be tired now, Kota, but trust me: you're choosing to be here. That means something."
Kota tilts his head, processing.
Akito continues, "And Schrodinger's cat? It's not about the cat. It's about how we observe. Maybe we just need to look better."
Kota gives a faint laugh. "That sounds more comforting than my version."
A months later, Kota, now in Class 2-A, introduces Asahi to the club as the latter strolls into the club with the confidence of a pop star about to drop an album.
"I heard this club's got brains. Thought I'd challenge myself."
Isoto chokes on his pocky stick. "Another one?! What is this, a shōnen arc?!"
Asahi instantly becomes the darling of the club — his essays poetic, his debates sharp, and he brings snacks to meetings. Within two weeks, he gets more likes on his literary blog than Isoto and Kota combined.
Kota smiles through it, but Akito sees the quiet hesitation in his eyes. Still, no complaints. The club keeps growing, and the culture remains strong.
Later that semester, Akito organizes a team-building camp for the literature club. They go out to a modest wooded area outside town, pitch tents, and roast marshmallows by the fire like wannabe philosophers.
As the moon reaches its peak, the group huddles around the fire for storytelling.
Akito, holding a flashlight under his chin for drama, says:
"You know, this school was once a burial ground for samurai during the Heian Period. Later, a wealthy businessman built our campus over it. Some even say Christian persecution happened here during the Tokugawa Shogunate..."
He lowers the flashlight. "They say the spirits still linger — reading over your essays, judging your grammar."
A beat. Then Isoto shrieks dramatically, hugging Asahi. "If a ghost fixes my syntax, I welcome it!"
Laughter erupts.
Later at dawn, as the fire dies down and most have gone to sleep, Akito walks toward the portable restroom area and hears two voices talking by the edge of the camp.
He pauses — it's Kota and Kana, the shy junior who's been nursing a quiet heartbreak.
Kota speaks softly.
"You know, it's really hard to move on, but from my perspective, just bug him off. Guys can be clingy. I was. In junior high, I didn't know what love meant. Got friendzoned. Eyes opened. I realized... it was me. My clinginess. It ruined it."
He chuckles.
"But I learned. There was the pandemic. Lost touch. I tried again. The third time... she said yes. I learned it's the heart, not the brain. Let your heart decide. Always."
Behind the bushes, Akito smiles — not smugly, but with quiet relief.
"Kota... you've grown."
As time flies, Kota enters Class 3-A. Isoto becomes club president again, and despite still being chaotic, he's matured. Akito, meanwhile, grows restless.
He stares at his desk one day and sighs. "I love this school. But I think... I need to keep moving."
He drafts a resignation letter. One week later, he's gone.
Students cry. Isoto sulks for days. Kota sends a short message:
Thank you for everything, Sensei.
Akito replies with a smiling emoji and a book emoji.
Back in the present, Akito is still sitting in the café, scrolling through old posts from Kota and Akiko. Pictures of food, group selfies, blurry sunsets with melancholic captions.
He messages Asahi again.
Akito: > Have the police done anything yet?
Asahi: > Some CCTV footage suggests two hooded figures, but no ID. There's doubt. A lot of us think it isn't them. The school's divided. Some teachers believe they ran away, others think it's deeper.
Akito frowns.
He stands up, grabs his bag, and slings it across his shoulder.
"Time to go," he says quietly.
The waiter finally smiles, probably because he's vacating the seat. Akito gives a thumbs-up and exits into the city twilight.
As he walks toward the station, he murmurs to himself:
"Kota's too thoughtful. Akiko too kind. Something's not right."
He stops by a vending machine, buys a bottled tea, and sits by the platform bench.
His eyes narrow.
"I think it's time I visit Shinomiya again."
He pops open the drink, but it sprays all over his pants.
"Argh! Seriously?" he mutters, standing up and trying to wipe himself with his handkerchief.
A passing teenage girl snickers.
Akito bows apologetically, looking like a man who just lost a battle with a lemon tea bottle.
Still — as he stands there, tea-stained but focused, there's a sense of resolve building in him.
Kota and Akiko are out there.
And he's going to help find them.